


A Careful Study Of The Courtship Rituals Of Humans

by ryttu3k



Series: A Compilation Of Studies On Comparisons Between Human And Draconic Cultures [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Courtship, Cultural Differences, Dragons, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a distinct shortage of red things in the kingdom of Kalos...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Careful Study Of The Courtship Rituals Of Humans

**Author's Note:**

> Oh jeez I don't even know. [Vergess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vergess/pseuds/Vergess) gave me a prompt for a drabble and it ran away on me. "I would like a story which I can reblog with the following tag: In which one of these fuckwits is a dragon and keeps hoarding things in the local duke’s signature color in the hopes that he will ride out to confront him in person because look these knights are cute and all but he’s a dragon they don’t really stand a chance okay so could you please come talk to me in person look I have a whole cave full of your fav color, that’s how human courting works right?"

There was a distinct shortage of red things in the kingdom of Kalos.

It had started with rubies, of course. Bright red, precious gemstones, they had slowly been vanishing over the past few weeks - great swords with gleaming red gems embedded in the hilts, golden cups studded with the minerals like drops of blood. Sometimes, should there be too many gems on a desired object, they would be carefully extracted, leaving gaps in what was once a priceless artefact. After the rubies came the topaz, the garnets, the carnelian, until every red gem in the kingdom was long since gone.

Next came the enamel. Bright red shields had been stolen. Lanterns, next. Plates and goblets. By the time the red theft had started on cookware, Lysandre, the Crimson Duke, was feeling particularly put out.

That was his best Le Creuset casserole dish, for the love of Arceus.

And so, he sent out soldiers, urging them to find this fiend and apprehend him. They indeed rode out enthusiastically, shouting war cries, Lysandre's arms crossed in front of his red-clad chest as he stared out over the horizon - and then they had rode back in a hurry, mildly singed and every single shiny red pin marking them as his men torn from the shoulders of their cloaks.

"D-dragon!" one stammered, and promptly collapsed on the ground.

Lysandre frowned, nodding once in acknowledgement as the man's companions hauled him off to the infirmary. A dragon, hm? They were known for hoards, that was true - but a hoard of red things? That was a little more perplexing, and yet he couldn't deny that it was definitely a challenge that had caught his attention.

So the dragon wanted red, did he?

Then he would get it.

 

His Cunning Plan would start the next morning. He would send out a fresh regiment of soldiers, this one a little larger and significantly better armed, along with a shipment of gorgeous crimson fabric that was supposed to be made into fine clothing. They would lure the dragon in with the fabric, and then, when the time was right - they would capture it.

Sitting back in his study as the soldiers rode on, he closed his eyes, content at the trophy he would have on his wall.

 

The soldiers returned with very little cloth, their shiny red pins _and_ their crimson hats conspicuously missing, and with the news that every single item of red clothing aside from the ones that Lysandre was wearing at that very moment was gone.

He took one look at his closets and swore - it was true, all that was left was black, white, and grey. Clinging to his cloak for dear life, he dismissed them, ordering them to find any clothes reasonably close to red.

He was absolutely _not_ about to wear green.

 

The next morning, he awakened, shivering in the cold, to find the bright red panels stripped off his walls, the red rugs removed from his now-bare floors, and his red blanket vanished from the bed. Only the crimson cloak remained, clutched in his arms like his life depended on it.

Grumbling, he dressed himself in black and swished his way down to breakfast, ready to bury his sorrows in toast and raspberry jam. But the plate set before him (white with gold trim, no red to be seen) had a modest serving of blueberry jam, and he turned to the server indignantly.

"Well, sir," the server stammered, "You see, there's a little, um, problem in the store rooms..."

And without further adieu, Lysandre leaped to his feet, marching for those store rooms himself, eyes picking out the shelves of preserves...

Blue and orange.

Just blue and orange - blueberry, blackberry, apricot, marmalade. Every single jar of raspberry jam was gone, along with all the strawberry, cherry, and cranberry. Even the fresh berries themselves had vanished.

Lysandre narrowed his eyes.

This meant war.

 

It took roughly a day for him to prepare, and the rash of thefts (and mildly singed soldiers) continued. By the time he was properly armed, his advisor, Xerosic, had had his hairpiece stolen from atop his head, there were mass shortages of tomatoes, pomegranates, and beets being reported, and every single red flower in the kingdom had been carefully removed.

Mounting his horse, Lysandre rode on to where the dragon's lair was said to be hidden, far up in the mountains. It was actually a fairly pleasant, fairly calm ride - no fearsome monsters flying out to meet him, no jets of flames, no earth-trembling growls - just a pleasant breeze, birds tweeting happily, the sunshine bright and cheerful.

In fact, by the time he reached the foot of the path leading up the cliffs to where he could see a large cave entrance, he was almost enjoying this.

With a rather put-upon sigh, he dismounted and dismissed the horse, checked his sword (not the usual one - that, of course, had a red hilt and probably more rubies than was strictly necessary, and had been one of the first to go), and started striding upwards, red cloak billowing behind him, ready to face the monster who had deprived the Crimson Duke of his colours.

The climb was a long one, and by the time he reached the shadow of the cave, his face was as red as his hair (and, briefly, the thought of the dragon stealing _him_ crossed his mind. At least that would be a far more immediate confrontation). Still, there was no time to pause - his fashion sense, taste in interiors, and breakfast depended on this confrontation - a world without red was an ugly one, and he was bound and determined to make it beautiful once more.

No matter what it took.

The cave, as it turned out, was simply the start of a long tunnel, sloping into the mountain, lit by torches on either side. Torches? It was almost as if he was expected, and Lysandre's grip tightened on the sword as he crept ever further down, quietly examining the width of the tunnel, calculating the dragon's potential size as he did so.

Big, then. Very big.

And now he was beginning to hear things, too - a deep, slow, rhythmic rumble, in and out, as regular as a heartbeat. Breathing, he decided; slow, gentle breathing. The fiend was asleep, then.

As he reached the bottom of the tunnel, he could see gold - but old gold, dusty gold, gold that had clearly been there for a while and not particularly bothered with. More to the point, he was also starting to see rubies, layers of red gems mixed in with enamel. Next up were home decorations, and he was sure he could see the rug from his sitting room, partially covered in red plates, clothing, and several jars of jam.

And, atop this mountain, was the dragon.

Lysandre stopped short, mouth falling open as he gazed upwards. It was... magnificent, he had to admit - a long, sleek body, wings tucked in close, gleaming sapphire scales covering it from the tip of its tail to its head, where they darkened into black. Its underside was a deep charcoal.

It looked... well... distinctly incongruous lying atop a pile of red things, that was for sure.

He took another step closer, gaze fixed on the dragon's head before pausing in astonishment - there was a flash of red not beneath the dragon but above it, fabric tied like a very tiny scarf around its neck.

"Is that my fucking shirt?" Lysandre said, and the dragon opened one eye.

Grey, he registered vaguely, and then it spoke.

"Oh! It, uh, might be," the dragon said sheepishly (sheepishly?), reaching up with one clawed hand to touch it lightly. "But really, who's your tailor? This is very nice cloth, and it smells, er, very nice. It's good that you've finally made it here, though! I was starting to wonder if I would have to kidnap maidens or something to get your attention. Not that the soldiers weren't nice-looking, but..."

It waved a claw dismissively, pushing its serpentine body up to peer at Lysandre more closely.

"Oh," the dragon said happily, "You look even better close up."

Lysandre blinked once. "Wait," he said, "You were trying to get _my_ attention?"

"Of course!" the dragon answered cheerfully, stretching its long body out languidly and reminding Lysandre forcefully of a content housecat. "That's how it works, isn't it?"

"How what works?" Lysandre asked, utterly lost but also not particularly caring, given that it was shaping up to be an extremely surprising day.

The dragon blinked its grey eyes again, ducking its head a little, and Lysandre forcefully squashed down the little voice that had popped up to go, 'Awww.'

"Well -" (Lysandre made a mental note that dragons sounding vaguely embarrassed should not have been so cute.) "You know, the whole... filling up an entire cave with your favourite colour thing. That is how human courtship goes, right?"

What, Lysandre thought. "What," Lysandre said.

There was a very long silence.

"I've got it wrong, haven't I?" the dragon said dramatically, flopping back on its pile of red things, one clawed hand flung upwards to his forehead. "Mon dieu, all these cultures are hard to keep track of! Well, how do you court humans, then? Collections of livestock? Scorching their name into the surrounding fields? Twisting the clouds into aesthetically pleasing shapes?"

What, Lysandre thought again. "Er," he said, "Generally... flowers are good. Poetry is nice. Cooking someone a nice meal. (Please don't cook my horse.) Acts of chivalry. That sort of thing."

"Chivalry," the dragon mused, brightening up considerably. "Oh, alright! Slaying dragons is an act of chivalry! Well, go ahead."

And, much to Lysandre's complete surprise, it lowered its head, peering up with big grey eyes that, this close up, could not be described with any word that wasn't 'pretty'.

"What," he said again.

"Just one hit, right?" the dragon said, sounding distinctly apprehensive. "I think that's how Mama said it worked. You need to 'slay' the dragon to make it work - although, please use the flat of your blade, alright? Seriously, that could sting otherwise."

"Er," Lysandre said, and glanced down at the sword. That was what he had come for, hadn't he? Slaying the dragon, saving the day, liberating the red things, et cetera, et cetera? "Well, it's your headache," he said with a shrug, glanced down into those pretty grey eyes, and brought the sword down lightly on top of its head.

There was a distinctly human yelp, and the dragon vanished, sending red things skittering down the hoard. Lysandre blinked up at them, then down again - and then blinked again for good measure, because at his feet was a man.

Specifically, a man with long dark curls clutched in his hands (no claws), Lysandre's shirt draped over his shoulders, clashing magnificently with the sapphire blue tunic and charcoal leggings he wore, staring up at him with - yes - those pretty grey eyes and looking distinctly put-out.

"I didn't actually realise the sword was that heavy," he grumbled, "Or I would have asked you to use a lighter touch." And then he plucked up a red, thornless rose from the nearby pile, offering it to Lysandre with a hopeful look on his face.

Lysandre took it, feeling vaguely dazed. "So - you're actually a human?" he asked, gazing at the rose.

"Sort of," the former dragon admitted, "We're sort of... both. If there's a strong-enough desire to do so, and someone willing to help the transition along, we can, well, change. Wow, skin is so soft." And then he glanced back up sharply. "You're not obligated to do anything else," he continued in a rush, "I _like_ humanity, it's not just you! I mean, it would be _nice_ if you wanted to... keep going with this whole courtship thing, and I promise I won't bring you livestock or anything, but if you don't, I'll just go find a village and work out how to do the whole human thing."

He probably doesn't realise how much he's blushing, Lysandre thought with a hint of amusement, if he's never had skin that would show it before. "What's your name?" he said instead, offering the ex-dragon-and-now-very-pretty-man a hand up, "That would quite possibly be a good start."

"Augustine," he said with a sunny smile, taking Lysandre's proffered hand and using it to pull himself to his feet, promptly pulling a little too hard and careening into Lysandre's chest. "Whoa - legs. Those are weird."

Lysandre, who had suddenly found himself with an armful of former dragon and was feeling distinctly warm, found himself smiling almost involuntarily. "You'll get used to them," he said grudgingly, glanced down at those grey eyes, sighed in resignation at the way his heart almost skipped a beat, tucked the rose behind Augustine's ear, and added, "I'll teach you. Shall we go?'

Augustine laughed, straightening up with Lysandre's help, his hands braced on the duke's arms. There was a brightness to his eyes, a pleased flush to his cheeks, a smile unable to quite be suppressed. "Yes, let's go," he smiled (prompting another involuntary smile from Lysandre in return), before glancing back at the pile of red things and letting out another laugh. "Although we're probably going to need help bringing all this stuff back..."

"We'll send some of the soldiers to bring it back," Lysandre declared, wrapping an arm more securely around Augustine's shoulders. "It can wait."

(But he was bringing back the casserole dish himself.)


End file.
